All the Lusty Ladies Know My Name

I have no idea we’re attracted to each other until we start fucking. But once we start, we don’t really stop until he leaves town two days later

Rowan’s a foxy, bucolic boy from the south with shoulder length, honey colored hair and long flirty eyelashes that droop down over his mossy green eyes so he always looks sleepy and wistful. He’s also got a very nice penis and plays guitar like his hair’s on fire. He shows up on my doorstep at 1:30 am Thursday morning. We start fucking around 3.

The night is like a dream. We drink beer and smoke weed until he decides he has to go move his car so it won’t get towed in the morning. His hand on the doorknob, spare key in his pocket, and before either of us knows what’s happening, our bodies mesh. A trail of clothing to the bedroom and the two of us are a heaving, moaning tangle of flesh. It’s hard to tell where he ends, where I begin. His cock. My breasts. Our tongues. Our sweat.

It ceases to matter that he hasn’t showered in a few days, that I haven’t brushed my teeth, that the sheets on my bed are far from fresh, the cat’s incessant meowing, or the dirty laundry on the floor. It ceases to matter that we don’t know each other’s last names, star signs, or dietary habits. All that matters is the visceral functioning of our bodies; a galaxy of nerve endings; a pool of erogenous zones. . .

I wake to him looking at me, touching my hair. The vortex of sex pulls us into each other again until finally, at noon, we get out of bed. The coffee is strong and bitter and it pulls the sleep out of our eyes. Outside, it’s sunny. I offer to show Rowan around San Francisco before I go to rehearsal. We amble through Chinatown, munching dim sum and staring in the strange windows of the Chinese butcher shops, at roasted duck and hen hanging by their bony necks, giant frogs crammed in tiny aquariums awaiting their doom.

I lose myself in the poetry room of City Lights bookstore and am brought back to reality by Rowan’s soft hand on my waist. “Want to get a cup of coffee?

Drinking cappuccinos out of gigantic teacups, our glassy-eyed gazes shift from the black and white photographs of Lawrence Ferlinghetti to the toothless man outside banging on a guitar with no strings. We walk down nudie strip, the couple blocks of Broadway that become a neon porn jungle at night. It’s still light out, and the strippers stand outside the clubs smoking and chatting with the security guys

When we get to Kearney street, I say “Oh, look! The Lusty Lady, and act surprised. Rowan raises his eyebrows as I proceed to elucidate the finer points of the only unionized peep show in the continental U.S.

“But I don’t have any quarters. Rowan smiles sheepishly, shuffling his feet.

“I do! Grabbing his hand, I drag him through the lobby and into the dark, carpeted room. “Okay. Don’t touch the walls or the door and don’t put anything on the ground. Inside, it’s stuffy. The scent of semen stains the air and try as I might, I can’t keep the sleeve of my jacket from touching the wall.

“The floor is sticky. Rowan mutters in my ear, but the booth is tiny, so tiny he has to stand extremely close to me, and I can feel through his pants that he likes the situation. I give him the quarters and he starts feeding them into the coin slot, one by one. The window shade rises.

On the other side of the plexi glass are 4 or 5 women, all naked, most of them wearing high heels. A few have jewelry, dangling earrings, necklaces with heavy pendants that rest in their cleavage, or belly chains. One girl has been haphazard with her depilatory ritual. Her “racing stripe is off center. A patch of dark hair sprouts behind one of her knees. She comes over to our window and starts to gyrate. Rowan giggles nervously, but other parts of him are getting aroused. The woman lifts her leg and starts to touch herself, gently peeling back the petals of her labia to give us a better view of her. Then she looks at me. I smile. She looks at me again and bends down to get a closer view. “Hannah?

“Uh, hi. I wave awkwardly. I don’t know who she is, but I have been caught with my muff in the proverbial dildo bin, and I hope she either goes back to the pussy show or just goes away. The last thing I want is a conversation from one side of the glass to the other. But I guess that’s what she has in mind, because she says, “How are you?

“I’m, uh, good. Here with a friend. I point to Rowan, who grins like an idiot and says, “Hi, I’m Rowan.

“Oh, says the girl. Puzzlement in her eyes, she stands back up and sways away, back to her pole or to gyrate in front of someone else. The window shade is descending and all our quarters are gone. I feel completely embarrassed, humiliated even, like my mother has caught me with my finger on my happy button, but Rowan is still grinning. He thinks I’m the coolest shit on earth at this moment, and he says, “Wow, all the girls know you at the peepshow. That is so hot! And for some reason this makes me feel grateful. So grateful that I take him. Right there. In my mouth. And I go to rehearsal happy. Knowing he’s leaving tomorrow. Knowing we may not see each other again.

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